


let me help you count your sheep

by Singofsolace



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Abuse, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23263783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singofsolace/pseuds/Singofsolace
Summary: Zelda Spellman falls ill. Mambo Marie keeps vigil. Everything unravels, even that which should remain unspoken.My response to Mambo Marie March Week Three: Sick!fic
Relationships: Marie LaFleur (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)/Zelda Spellman, Marie LaFleur/Zelda Spellman, Zelda Spellman/Mambo Marie
Comments: 19
Kudos: 93
Collections: Mambo Marie March





	let me help you count your sheep

Mambo Marie LaFleur had known a lot of difficult people in her life as a _vodouisant_ , but she had never met a woman quite so stubborn as Zelda Spellman. Though Zelda had made it deliciously clear that she was… _welcome_ , now that things had quieted down in the aftermath of the final confrontation with the pagans, Marie was starting to feel more and more like an outsider whose help was neither needed nor wanted.

This didn’t stop her from trying.

“Zelda, please, _ma ch_ _érie_ , you must let me examine you—” said Marie, reaching for the woman as she paced in front of her, smoking her cigarette.

“Sabrina is hiding something,” said Zelda, ignoring Marie entirely as she stared into the fire. “I just don’t know what it is.”

“She is a teenager, eh? She will always be hiding something from _sa m_ _ére_ ,” said Marie, a sparkle in her eyes as she playfully tugged on Zelda’s arm. When Zelda didn’t acknowledge the touch, she pulled harder—hard enough that the woman lost her balance and fell backwards into Marie’s lap.

“Marie!” Zelda said sternly, trying not to drop her cigarette as Marie’s hands began to wander.

“I need to check how your wound is healing, _mon coeur_ ,” said Marie as she pulled the fabric of Zelda’s blouse up to untuck it from her skirt.

“You saw it last night,” said Zelda, squirming to extricate herself from Marie’s hold. “It’s fine.”

“I was more interested in other things last night,” said Marie, placing a gentle kiss of apology on a bruise in the shape of her mouth that marred the otherwise pale skin of Zelda’s neck. “I should have paid closer attention then, but what can I say, _ch_ _érie_? You have me under a spell.”

Marie’s hands moved to pull the fabric of Zelda’s skirt down, so that she could see the bullet wound, but Zelda stopped the motion by placing a staying hand over hers. “Not here.”

Marie immediately stopped, looking around the empty parlor in confusion. “There is no one else to see, Zelda.”

“But anyone could walk in,” insisted Zelda, shifting slightly in Marie’s lap so that she could see her face. “My wounds are…private.”

Marie nodded in understanding, placing a hand on Zelda’s cheek, before frowning at how flushed with heat it was. “ _Ch_ _érie_ … you are hot.”

“You have a gift for words,” said Zelda sarcastically with a raised eyebrow. “I think I’d prefer ‘stunning,’ ‘radiant,’ ‘bewitching,’…”

“ _Non_ ,” insisted Marie, lifting her hand to press the back of it against Zelda’s forehead. “You are hot to the touch, _ch_ _érie_. You have a fever.”

“Nonsense,” said Zelda, pushing Marie’s hand away and standing up. “I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

Marie followed close behind, like a shadow. “You may have an infection, Zelda. Let us go up to your room, if you are not comfortable here.”

“Really, Marie, I’m fine,” Zelda said, waving her cigarette holder for emphasis. “I might not have your surgical skills, but I’m still a midwife. Witches have been in my medical care for centuries. I would know if I had an infection.”

“Then perhaps you have a virus or _la grippe_ ,” said Marie, plucking Zelda’s cigarette from her hand and putting it out on a nearby ash tray. “You need to be in bed. _Allons-y_.”

“You’re wasting your energy,” said Zelda as Marie latched onto her elbow and practically dragged her out of the parlor and up the stairs.

“I will decide what is a waste,” said Marie, concerned as Zelda seemed out of breath when they had only made it half way up the stairs. “You are not well. Why not say so? There is no shame in it.”

“ _I_ will decide what is shameful,” growled Zelda, pushing away from Marie and climbing the stairs herself, with one hand gripping the railing as if it was the only thing keeping her standing.

“We cannot always control what happens to our bodies, Zelda. They are only flesh.”

That stopped the woman in her tracks, with only a step or two to go to reach the landing. Marie held her breath, worried by the way Zelda’s aura had changed. There was something ominous in the energy, though she sensed the origin was not natural to Zelda’s spirit. Marie came to stand beside her, but did not touch her.

“ _Ch_ _érie_?”

Zelda was staring straight ahead, as if seeing something Marie could not.

“I was wrong, Marie,” said Zelda, her voice hardly above a whisper. “You do, truly, have a way with words.”

With that, Zelda hurried up the rest of the stairs in a burst of manic energy, but by the time they made it to Zelda’s room, Zelda couldn’t seem to catch her breath, and her body shook with tremors. Marie had gone from being mildly concerned to truly frightened for her companion’s health.

“ _Ch_ _érie_? What is wrong?”

“Exhaustion, nothing more,” said Zelda breathlessly, settling herself down on her bed with a sigh. “I’ve had a rather eventful few months, that's all."

Marie reached to help Zelda undo her blouse, so that she could examine the wound before slipping her into something more comfortable. It struck Marie as significant that Zelda would allow her to do this, to see her so vulnerable. Trust was still an uncertain thing between them, but clearly, Zelda had decided she was worthy, and it made Marie’s heart fill with pride.

When Zelda was down to her lingerie, Marie took the opportunity to examine Zelda’s lower abdomen. She poked and prodded at the wound, looking for any signs to indicate there was an infection. “It does not look to be inflamed.”

“I told you,” said Zelda as Marie walked to the dresser to find a suitable nightgown. “The wound is healing fine—just a bit more slowly than I would like. Blessed schoolmarm and her silver bullets.”

Marie slipped a loose, silk nightgown over Zelda’s head. She expected an objection to her choice, but Zelda just let her do it, without any indication that she was unused to being treated like a doll. “You still have a fever, _chérie_. I should find your sister—she would know what spells to cast for you to find the root of _le probl_ _ème_.”

“I would prefer we didn’t bother her with this,” said Zelda, shivering. Marie frowned. It appeared the woman was now beset with chills.

“Then what would you like me to do?” said Marie, motioning for Zelda to lie down so that she could tuck her beneath the covers.

“Just… stay with me,” whispered Zelda as Marie tucked the blanket beneath her chin. “Like you did before.”

Marie nodded. “I will, _ch_ _érie_. Sleep now.”

Zelda closed her eyes, but Marie could tell she wasn’t sleeping. Her breathing was still labored and her body still shivered beneath the covers. She had heard the lullaby that Zelda had sang to put the mortals to sleep…perhaps she should try one of her own?

And so, Marie began to sing, and Zelda’s breathing deepened, and everything was peaceful, for a time.

 _Bonne nuit, cher trésor, ferme tes yeux et dors._ (Good night, dear treasure, close your eyes and sleep)

 _Laisse ta tête, s’envoler, au creux de ton oreiller._ (Let your head fly away, in the hollow of your pillow)

 _Un beau rêve passera, et tu l’attraperas._ (A beautiful dream will pass, and you will catch it)

 _Un beau rêve passera, et tu le retiendras._ (A beautiful dream will pass, and you will hold it back)

* * *

Zelda Spellman had been hale and healthy for nigh-on two hundred and fifty years. Though it was true that witches had natural immunity to most mortal ailments, it didn’t mean that they couldn’t get sick, especially if some nefarious forces set upon them with ill intent. Hilda herself had been a sickly child, but their father always said the cause wasn’t an earthly illness—it was the result of being born feet first, under a full moon.

But being immune to most mortal illnesses didn’t mean that the Spellman’s lives weren’t affected by them. The Spanish flu had hit Greendale especially hard. Though Zelda would never admit a close connection to a mortal, she had lost one of her closest… acquaintances… to the Spanish influenza in 1918, right after the Armistice. Since March of that year—though August had been the worst month by far—the mortuary had been overwhelmed by the influx of corpses, so much so that her father had ordered Zelda to start cremating them the moment that they arrived, so that they would have more space in the morgue for “important” deaths—which meant anyone whose family could pay the exorbitant prices he had set for a proper burial during the crisis.

_“But Papa, what if their families ask where the bodies are—?”_

_“They won’t.”_

_“But if they_ do _, Papa—the mortals have their rituals, and we can’t just take their choice away—”_

 _“The bodies are going to keep coming, girl. Half this town is going to die, and no one wants a contagious corpse hanging around. We’re saving the mortals from themselves. Do as I say, or I’ll stick_ you _in the bloody crematorium. No Cain Pit would save you, then.”_

Zelda still remembers the shock of seeing her (dare she say, “friend?”) when her body arrived, skin tinged blue and hair soaked with still-drying sweat. Spanish flu was unique in that it could kill a healthy adult in just a few short hours after the symptoms started. Zelda knew this to be true, for she’d seen dear, sweet Jane, alive and well, just that morning. Jane had offered her a flower, but instead of placing it in Zelda’s hand, she’d tucked it behind her ear, brushing her red curls out of the way with a gentle hand. The action had stolen the breath from Zelda’s lungs; she’d never been so captivated by a mortal before.

Jane had volunteered to be a nurse during the war to end all wars. Zelda had admired her for her courage, though she was forced to do it from afar. For four years, they’d written letters back and forth. Zelda still had them, hidden away in her trunk, with a red ribbon enchanted with an alarm spell to ensure no one would open them without her knowing.

Zelda had grown unspeakably… _fond_ of Jane during wartime, and when she’d returned to Greendale, she’d wondered if they might grow closer. Hilda, having never seen Zelda so enamored of a mortal, had even accused her of _loving_ the girl— _loving her!_ —in response to which, Zelda smothered her sister in her sleep, so that she might be able to bury her in the Cain Pit without her father condemning her for wasting her strength on digging an unnecessary grave.

But if Zelda _had_ loved Jane, she would’ve wept when she pulled the white sheet away from the body, expecting yet another nameless influenza casualty that needed to be shoved unceremoniously into the incinerator, only to see Jane’s sweet young face. If she’d loved her, she would have taken extra care to summon the woman’s favorite Sunday dress to bury her in. If she’d loved her, she would have ensured she had a plot in the Spellman Cemetery that faced east, so that her spirit would be greeted with the sunrise every morning.

If she loved her, that was. But loving her would have been a sin against the Dark Lord, and Zelda had been sure to avoid doing that since her first Dark Devotion had been so… so…

* * *

_"Zelda? Zelda! Mon dieu, elle est en feu!”_

_“Sister? Can you hear me?”_

_“Zelda, ma chérie_ _, you must return to me!”_

* * *

Zelda had once been sick at the Academy, but it was not like a mortal sickness. During her Harrowing, someone had put a truly torturous curse on her on the third day, when it was supposed to be over. She survived the Harrowing only to find herself growing weaker by the hour. It felt like she had a thousand leeches spread all over her body, sucking her blood—draining her life force.

It was Faustus who saved her, though she didn’t know it at the time. He was Top Boy, and when he discovered the treachery, he arrived just in time to save her body from wasting away. He’d kept vigil over her for days, ensuring that her soul wasn’t dragged to hell before its time.

She missed him. (Dare she say, she _missed_ him?) Not the man he became… but the boy who had sat by her side. The boy who had taught her everything she knew about Demonology, despite it being forbidden for her to study, as a designated medi-witch. The boy who had made her first Lupercalia a sweet and tender thing, who made sure to be gentle as he went, and kissed her tears away when it hurt, despite his best efforts to prepare her. Where had _that_ boy gone, she wondered? Where was the Faustus of her youth, who could be cruel, but also kind, in equal measure?

* * *

_“Auntie? Auntie, it’s me, Ambrose. I’m going to perform a spell on you, okay? I know you can’t talk right now, but I just want you to know I wouldn’t do it without your permission if you weren’t so… I’m going to do it, and it might hurt. But you’ll get better. I know you will. And then you can yell at me all you like.”_

* * *

Zelda had avoided Rome since her brother’s untimely death, but she was glad to return to its cobbled streets for her honeymoon. While Faustus had business to attend to beneath the Vatican, she was free to roam the city, alone at last, her own woman again, without the responsibilities of caring for her kin, of being the matriarch of a fallen—and now resurrected—family.

She had freedom. She had a new life, finally separate from her familial obligations. It was entirely intoxicating.

…not that she regretted taking Sabrina and Ambrose in for one moment. She was a nurturer at heart, and she would never begrudge giving them both a safe home. But for seventy-five years, she had been the caretaker of Ambrose’s sanity, bringing him books and knick-knacks to keep his mind off his house arrest. For sixteen of those years, too, she’d had Sabrina to think about, to guide, to raise in the Satanic ways...

Zelda needed a vacation, and Rome was alive with promise. She went to various shops, buying the most expensive of silks and pleasing of pastries. She shopped for Faustus, too, buying him a new cravat she knew would go handsomely with his robes. She listened to the street performers play their music. She took in the sights and smells like she never had before, with new purpose, knowing that this new life would finally be hers—and hers alone—to live.

It wasn’t until she returned to the hotel that she got a sense that something might be wrong. Faustus had already taken off his robes, which was unusual for a High Priest to do before sunset. The decanter of whiskey, which she had only just filled that morning, was already concerningly depleted.

“Faustus?”

There was no response. Faustus just continued to look into the bottom of his glass, not acknowledging Zelda’s presence at all.

“Has something gone wrong with the interment of the Anti-Pope? Have you been blamed for his death?” said Zelda in a rush, though she was quite certain some of the blame _did_ rest on Faustus’ shoulders on that score.

“All is well, wife,” said Faustus, but his voice wasn’t quite right. Something had shifted. He was speaking to her like a stranger, not like the woman he’d known since they were children.

“Perhaps we should put the whiskey away,” said Zelda, attributing this strange mood to drunkenness and nothing more. Her father had been a drunk—she knew how to care for such a man.

“Zelda,” Faustus said. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. But a statement of what, Zelda couldn’t say.

“Yes?”

Faustus downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass, before moving to the nightstand beside their bed. “I have a gift for you. For our honeymoon. I know how fond you are of music.”

When Faustus turned around, he was holding an ornate music box. When he opened it, the music began to play, and Zelda felt a strange sensation come over her, like she was sinking into quicksand.

“It’s lovely,” Zelda said, taking the music box into her hands. It was a magical object—she could feel it—but she couldn’t discover its true nature without alerting Faustus to the fact that she’d noticed there might be something afoot.

“Are you my wife?” said Faustus, his eyes darker than she remembered them to be.

What kind of question was that? “Of course I am, Faustus.”

The sinking feeling was getting stronger, like her limbs were no longer her own, but trapped beneath the quicksand.

“Is your name Zelda Spellman?”

“Yes,” Zelda said, but suddenly, she felt an overwhelming urge to contradict herself. She tried to stop it, but the words came out of her mouth, completely without her permission. “No. No, I am Lady Blackwood.”

She would never call herself ‘Lady Blackwood’ in Faustus’ company. Perhaps in public, but never in private. What had come over her?

“Are you loyal to me?” said Faustus, coming closer. Zelda could smell the alcohol on his breath. For a brief moment, it reminded her of her father, before those thoughts were overruled by the need—the urge—to respond immediately.

“Yes,” Zelda said, but her voice was not her own. The pitch of it was all wrong. She was no longer in control.

“Who is your lord and master?” said Faustus, taking the music box from her hands and returning it to the nightstand, with the lid still open.

“The Dark Lord,” Zelda said, immediately, unable to stop herself.

“Did he come to you last night?” said Faustus, loosening his tie.

“Yes,” said Zelda, the memory clear in her mind—the fear, the pain, the humiliation of having to offer her body to someone—even her deity—against her will.

Faustus paused as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Did he claim you?”

Zelda wanted to lie, to tell him that he had, because to admit otherwise would be to admit her unworthiness, but the truth came, unbidden: “No.”

“Why?”

Faustus was down to his underwear. Zelda hadn’t moved a muscle since the music box had been taken from her.

“Because Dorcas screamed,” said Zelda, though she wasn’t sure that truly was the reason, but whatever spell had taken over her did not allow for indecision. Whatever thought occurred first was the one wrested from her lips.

“Good,” said Faustus, now naked, climbing onto the bed. Zelda registered a moment of shock at such a blasphemous thought coming from a High Priest. “Take off your clothes.”

Zelda wanted to say, “What?” She wanted to say, “No.” She wanted to say, “Why?” (Though she knew why). Without her permission, her hands reached for her hat. She took the hat pin out, and for a moment—just a brief moment—she felt a weakness in the Caligari spell, and tried to break it with the feeling of the hat pin strong in her hand—but then the moment was gone, and she was lost beneath the spell.

“Yes, husband.”

* * *

_“Auntie Zee? It’s Sabrina. Please, please, come back to us. I’m not done driving you crazy yet.”_

* * *

Mambo Marie had never seen such a fever. Within less than an hour of putting Zelda to bed, the woman was completely delirious. She had slept for only a brief time, before she jerked awake.

“Jane! Jane? Please, no, _Jane_ ,” Zelda moaned.

Marie didn’t know anyone in Zelda’s life named Jane, and she was starting to fear that this illness was unlike any other she had seen, so she summoned Hilda immediately.

“Bloody hell!” Hilda said as she appeared. “I know you’re new to this family, Marie, but we don’t just _summon_ people—”

“Your sister is seriously ill,” Marie said, cutting Hilda off. “I do not know what can be done for her.”

Hilda’s eyes went wide. “Zelds?!”

Zelda was staring unseeingly at the ceiling, her skin slick with sweat. “Jane?”

“No, love, it’s your sister,” said Hilda, reaching for Zelda’s hand before turning back to Marie. “How long has she been like this?”

“Not long at all,” insisted Marie, wary of the fact that the family did not trust her yet. “I swear, she was fine not long ago.”

“I believe you,” assured Hilda, as she reached to feel Zelda’s head, but immediately snapped her hand back. “She’s burning up!”

“Yes,” agreed Marie, placing a hand to her heart. She could feel it racing in her chest; she hadn’t realized how dear Zelda was to her until the fever had taken such a strong hold of her lover.

“Please—get Ambrose and Sabrina here at once. I need all the help I can get,” said Hilda, pushing up her sleeves.

Marie didn’t think twice about complying.

* * *

“ _Faustus! Faustus, no_ ,” Zelda moaned in her delirium, shocking Marie as she sat by her side. Ambrose had tried his magic, and Sabrina had arrived not long after. It felt like a true vigil, now, with all of the Spellmans present, but Marie had seen images of the future in her mind’s eye, and she knew that this woman was not meant to die now. So—why was she in such a state?

“Perhaps we should get the children out,” Marie whispered in Hilda’s ear, the distraught looks on Ambrose and Sabrina’s faces making everything even more intolerable.

“You’re right,” admitted Hilda, before addressing her niece and nephew. “Alright, loves, why don’t you go make us a spot of tea and biscuits, eh?”

“I’m not leaving her,” said Sabrina, leaning her head on Zelda’s stomach. “I’ve only just got her back. I’m _not_ going.”

 _“Please, please, let me go—Faustus!”_ Zelda cried, and Sabrina flinched away.

“I’m not asking, loves, I’m telling you—I need you to go downstairs right now,” insisted Hilda, her eyes wild.

“Come on, cousin,” said Ambrose, taking Sabrina by the hand. “Auntie Zelda wouldn’t want us here.”

“Who are _you_ to say what she’d want?!” said Sabrina indignantly, though she let herself be dragged from the room.

In the children’s absence, the room had gone unbearably still.

“What is wrong with _ma ch_ _érie_?” asked Marie, not bothering to hide her affection in front of Hilda.

“I don’t know,” admitted Hilda, dragging her hands down across her face. “Truly, I don’t know.”

* * *

Three days later, the fever broke. Everyone had worked round-the-clock to discover the nature of the illness, but in the end, it seemed to be Zelda herself who triumphed over her own ailment. Marie was the one keeping the vigil at the time, having told everyone else to get some rest.

“Marie?” came a small, hoarse voice. It was music to her ears.

“Zelda? _Ma chérie?_ You are back?!” said Marie, jumping into the bed to hold Zelda close.

“Where did I go?” Zelda said, only half awake.

Marie brushed a sweat-drenched lock of red hair out of Zelda’s face. “Nowhere, _mon amour_. You are here.”

“Marie?”

“Yes?” she said, placing a chaste kiss on Zelda’s cheek.

“You were right.”

Marie shook her head, not understanding. “Right?”

“We cannot… always control… what happens… to our bodies,” said Zelda, between shaky breaths.

Marie had an image of that awful man, Faustus Blackwood, coming to kill them all. Though it felt more like an apparition—a dream—than a memory, she recalled a moment where she stood in front of Zelda’s comatose body, as her solemn protector.

* * *

_“Who are you, monsieur?” Marie asked, stepping in front of Zelda’s prone form and raising her hands. “You are not welcome here.”_

_“That is my wife,” said the man, pointing to Zelda’s body without a flicker of emotion at her near-death state. “I have a sacred right to her body.”_

_“No one ever has a right to a woman’s body,” Marie said, raising her chin in defiance. “You will not come near her.”_

* * *

“ _Ch_ _érie_ … you have been gravely ill. You need your rest,” said Marie, stroking Zelda’s cheek. Zelda sighed in happiness, relishing the touch.

“Will you sing me something, Marie?” Zelda breathed, tickling Marie’s nose.

“But of course, _mon amour._ ”

Instead of her French _chanson_ , she chose the sweet one that Zelda had sung for the mortals, hoping that it would bring her love some comfort.

_Tender shepherd, tender shepherd,_

_Let me help you count your sheep._

_One in the meadow, two in the garden,_

_Three in the nursery, fast asleep._

**Author's Note:**

> I put my whole heart into this one. As of Friday, I am in quarantine. I am not handling the isolation well. I imagine Zelda wouldn't, either. Please let me know what you think of this fic, because it might just keep me from going mad.
> 
> French translations:
> 
> ma chérie (my darling)  
> sa mére (her mother)  
> mon coeur (my heart/love)  
> la grippe (the flu)  
> Allons-y (let's go)  
> Mon dieu, elle est en feu! (My God, she's on fire!)  
> mon amour (my love)


End file.
